Tag Archives: Prose

The Diaries of King Arthur: Part 3

9 Apr

This is part 3 in a series. If you missed out, start here.

INTRO: King Arthur having a breakdown/mid-life crisis is an idea I’ve been kicking around for a couple of years, and now I want to turn it into a screenplay. I’ve started these diaries as way of finding that story and the screenplay’s comedic voice.

WARNING: I know nothing about King Arthur. Oh, and the following may be EXPLICIT at times.

***The Diaries – Cont’d

15 of March, YooL, 605 AD

Good book,

My honor has been most hideously betrayed. Continue reading

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The Diaries of King Arthur: Part 2

24 Mar

This is part 2 in a series. If you missed out, start here.

INTRO: I’ve been wanting to write a comedic screenplay about King Arthur having a breakdown for a couple years now. I’ve started the Diaries as way of finding that story and the screenplay’s comedic voice.

WARNING: The following may be EXPLICIT at times. Also, I know nothing about King Arthur.

***The Diaries – Cont’d

7 of March, YooL, 605 AD

Hello.

Because of the entry of yester-yesterday my wife granted me access to our bed…for a peck on the cheek. She quoth this: That while Tristan’s joke was not appropriate, I was in the right direction mostly headed. She told me should I speak of my men and my day that she would reswear her fealty to me, and I would be able to sail the seas of her womanhood faster than a ship of Saxony.

Lord, I have never known such balls of pitch. Continue reading

The Diaries of King Arthur – A Comedy

21 Mar

I’ve been wanting to write a comedic screenplay about King Arthur having a breakdown for a couple years now. I’ve had many small ideas, but I need a story. I’ve started the Diaries as way of finding that story and the screenplay’s comedic voice.

WARNING: The following may be EXPLICIT at times. Also, I know nothing about King Arthur. Right now, that’s the way I like it.

Without further ado, venture forth braeve readyr…

Continue reading

Poem: The Body is a Fairy Tale

23 Feb

I was reading the dream journals of Jack Kerouac and came across the phrase “peach meat”.  Didn’t care for the dream but found the phrase compelling. I knew that I wanted to freewrite on it and see what it kicked up. Twelve drafts later (!) here it is. Started off as poem and became prose, but I think it’s still a poem at heart.

Let me know what you think.

***

The body is a fairy tale, a story that we tell ourselves that started long ago. Back then, we were mostly mouths that spoke only sometimes and always of our love for each other.  Back then, we had only heads, and no bodies. Our heads rolled around like peaches, happy and unthinking.

Back then, the body was a fairy tale, a story that we told ourselves every day. But one day it came true, as repeated stories often do. We became so enamored of the thought, we stopped our moving, lost in the dream.  Our scalps became rooted to the earth. And the story became a seed that grew, our heads like planting pots, the neck guiding the soft pink stalks upwards, until they became feet that we could walk around on.

That’s when the problems began. We spoke too often and frequently of nothing. We became obsessed with our new bodies, and their strange smells and juices. We began to consume each other with our mouths and with violence.  We learned to spread our juices by spreading our legs and by spreading war. We broke each others bodies in the name of love, and in the name of nations we broke each other bodies to spread the fruit flesh out for all to see, to speak as if with one big mouth: “We are better because we are victorious.”

But the body is a fairy tale, do you not remember? There still are soft reminders: Can you feel it in your cheek, this irritation, where the skin has been rubbed raw by the edge of a tooth? The flap of skin, pink and pulpy and lithe against the teeth. Probe it with your tongue until it peels free and you can hold it in your hands. Dream of a time when our mouths were minor miracles.  I remember this ancient time when I say your name, when I feel the soft stone of you under my tongue.  I speak your name, pit and flesh, and long to return there.

Let us unwrite this fairytale with our fingers. Let us revoke ourselves with silence. With these things we loosen the hold of this dank and slippery meat between our ears and our thighs. Help me put down this body and these words, and let’s drink stone tea together, the bitter taste of which becomes sweeter over time. Let it reduce us until we are bones, whole and forgotten, sleeping, dreaming of something better to grow.